Witches Like Shadows
by hiddleshakur
Summary: Victoria Roberts can't say she's had a very abnormal life. As a young novelist and attorney fresh out of school, she's single and loving it. But what happens when someone goes digging deep into her past? Rated M, just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_Ohkay...so this is my first story fic evah on Fanfic. I'm so excited. Now, I'm going to give you a brief overview._

_This first chapter might not look [or seem] like much. It's pretty short, less than 900 words. It's just an intro. Victoria is my character, so you won't recognize her. Just bear with me._

_This is an A/U, post-Harry Potter fanfiction story. This happens present-day._

_You all will have to see what happens; this is just a short intro, so again, just skim through and see what you think, and I promise it will pick up next chapter._

* * *

Sunset was coming quickly in the town of Salem, Massachusetts. It was early autumn already; most of the townspeople couldn't believe how quickly the summer had flown by. The Herb Festival in July was a bit hit, and business had been at an upturn, which was always good news.

The houses in quaint little Salem were built old-fashioned colonial-style, with slanted roofs that sort of gradually sloped down towards the ground. In the days of the American Revolution, these houses were made with this kind of roof so that the families inside, who lived on plots of land about a few acres each, could build on rooms behind their immediate structure, and just make the roof a little longer with each room. Uptown Salem was very nice; the suburbs were close-knit and well-kept, and autumn made their Victorian style housing look simply beautiful. Most of the wealthy patrons paid to have their old Victorian houses kept up by cleaning women, and paid into a pool to have the street swept, and overall the community was very nice and quiet.

Nothing like the dark past that Salem was famous for.

In the historic little town that was just thirty minutes away from Boston, most people knew most other people. For a small town, the roads were rather busy on a Friday, and especially today. It was the most unnatural phenomenon.

Victoria Roberts couldn't understand why it was so.

On the main city highway, I was driving away from the downtown area and the traffic was just getting thicker and thicker, like meat soup. You probably couldn't even fit people in between the cars. It was basically a perpetual stop-and-start process after I was no more than two or three miles out on the road. And I was nearing my exit.

Okay, the road was never this congested. Salem never had this many people in one place. I just wanted to get home.

Today was my mother and father's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Josh would already be there.

Yes, I was supposed to be at their house in two hours. How the hell was I going to get out of this traffic mess, get home, shower and change in time?

The brownies. Don't forget the caramel-swirled macadamia fudge brownies my parents asked for.

So I honked. _Come ON._

I glanced out of my window, frantically tapping my fingers on the steering wheel of my car. _What's the deal?_

I didn't see it until I cleared the top of the hill. Up ahead, there had been a collision just a few minutes ago. Already, cars were slowing as the road was bottlenecked into one lane by four policemen. Behind my big, black Jackie-O sunshades, I was rolling my eyes because obviously, they didn't realize that four lanes of Salem traffic on a Friday, no less, couldn't be choked into one lane. It just was not possible.

_Maybe I'll be home in time for next year's anniversary, _I sighed begrudgingly.

And look at what they'd done to the wreck scene! There they were, just pulling up in cars with their sirens wailing. Instead of trying to take up as few lanes as possible, they blazed right in and stopped up traffic. They hadn't even begun to try to clear up the wreck.

Not even the blood spattered all over the road.

One of the cars had been rear ended, a blue Volvo that was practically trashed from the impact. It was a little bit gut-wrenching to see the way the front of the car had been crushed like a can from the way that it had slammed into the median, practically cleaving the middle of the car apart. The hood was bent up, the car totaled, and the fender was laying a little ways away from the actual collision. The other car, a beige four-passenger car, wasn't very badly damaged.

I tipped my sunglasses up so they rested on my forehead. I looked out at the scene, sick to my stomach as my car crawled slowly by. A cop walked up, waving his hands at my window, like he was trying to make me look away. I stared at him, a little bit drowsy because the sight of blood…so much blood…it usually made me sick. I forced myself to look away, settling back into my seat. God, my blood was pumping and my stomach was churning.

Just when the traffic started to loosen up, I looked back. Just like Lot's wife.

Then I saw a dark figure slumped forward in the front seat, on the passenger side, and its neck was bent at a really awkward angle. Her ponytail stuck up. I could imagine it was probably matted with blood. The driver…I didn't think he'd made it either. The car had collapsed in on itself, and the whole left side of the car was smashed back into itself. The windshield was cracked. My God, there was blood on the glass—

And I felt really, really sick to my stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

_To my readers—it seems like it's been so long since I updated! Of course, still my first fic, so I'm just getting into the swing of things with high hopes that all will turn out well._

_Eyesuhkattspeleeng__- My first reviewer! Yay! I certainly hope to keep updating this story. Maybe it will come out strange at first, in bits and pieces, but I am so looking forward to digging into Rowling's treasure chest of unused and conceivable ideas._

_Yes, this is still a Snape/OC Fanfic. I'm keeping these first few chapters short because I haven't run into Snape yet, but I promise that it will come. Next chapter. Definitely. (if you read it, he will come!)_

_I always appreciate critique. If this story isn't going the way you thought it would (too bad, haha) or you have creative ideas, review! I can only fix things if they are located first._

_**Anyhow, the ideas used in this Fic are mine, but Severus Snape and all other facets/characters of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling._

* * *

My cellular phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered the call from one of my best friends and long-time co-worker, Ben.

"Can you come down to the building in a few?" He asked.

I bit my lip, knowing I was onto something here...and he knew I hated giving up on a project. "What for?"

A bit of static cut through the line, then his slightly nasal voice came through again. "I just need some help on the Evans case, Amy. I've been slammed with papers, and…"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Vic. You're a doll."

I'd long suspected Ben liked me in a way deeper than just friendship, but I wasn't exactly interested in partially bald men with goatees who were around ten years older than I. But he always made me smile—that much I could credit to the poor man. He had a sense of charm that just broke through my swinging demeanors.

I rummaged through my pearl-and-black Ivanka Trump bag, finding my sunglasses and cursing to myself when I couldn't locate my car keys. I looked up and saw them on the library table, and frowned to myself. _Why would I…? Oh well, no matter._

The room was big, airy, and –I'd always found— a little scary. Still, only a few other people were reading and I could only see one other person, a frumpy little lady with brown hair, browsing the tall bookshelves.

I did like the floor, though. I also liked the very beautiful, very intricate way they organized all of the tables and the books of the selves. Row upon row of old volumes, all meticulously organized, smelled like glue and spices that I couldn't even identify. The scents were nice, the room was always very cool…I loved to come here and just look at the books. But, I'd found that to be a bit unproductive most times, so I only came here on the frequent occasions that I needed new reading material or needed to do research for work. That was one grievous crime I could chalk up to the city library's record, I suppose—their computers were awful to use. They were just old and clunky, and you couldn't really do anything proper with them. I couldn't understand why the city hadn't replaced them already—they must be a hundred years old. They did act like my Aunt Camilla a bit: slow to commands, and always bitching right back at you when asked to do something, however polite you were.

* * *

Four minutes later, I'd abandoned my project for the time being, but my mind was still curious and reeling. Tracy, the assistant librarian, had agreed to keep my books saved for twenty-four hours, still pretending that some other gentleman or woman might actually come by demanding to read the same obscure reference books I was using.

I was cruising down Washington Street in the Mazda, and after stopping at just about every light, I turned into the parking lot where the firm was located. I went inside, and took the elevator to the third floor, where the office of the Lowell-Brewster Firm existed.

We worked copiously for the next two and a half hours on a case involving a mother named Evans who had filed serious criminal assault charges against an ex-boyfriend of hers. Pretty mainstream for our business.

I decided to head back to my work. After dashing through a Subway deli, I managed to be back at the Public Library by one-thirty.

I soon abandoned my epic quest for the second time, after running into a dead end. Literally. I had been following the history of my little townhouse, right back to its construction in the mid-late sixteen hundreds. Fascinated by the culture of Salem in general, this cute little town with such a difficult past, I'd wanted to learn where the roots of the town had come from. Ironically, the suburban area I had just recently bought into with the purchase of my low-maintenance, one bedroom home was not very well documented in the city records. Apparently a fire had accosted the City Hall, and most of the records existing then were completely incinerated. I could hardly find a shred of information from before 1750.

I was really only curious because not two weeks after moving in, I had located the hidden attic behind the closet door in my bedroom. I asked a friend to demolish the wall (not my specialty) as I put together the bed in the next room.

Kim suddenly shouted my name. I was a bit excited, but I did not expect to find what we found. There were old photographs, undated, unnamed, and the room smelled like mung beans.

Coughing like a couple of smokers, we retreated from the dusty old space to recover. Kim and I armed ourselves with hammers and kerchiefs, ready to tackle the mysterious old room. Boards had been nailed into the wall to cover up a charming old window that looked out of the side of the house, giving us both a lovely view of the neighbor's garage.

I was frazzled: why would a little room like that be sealed off in such a way?

The photographs could be dated as far back as 1846. They appeared to be taken of family members, and several were too dark or too blurry to make out.

What caught my eye was a shadowy man in the background of several pictures. He was young, clean-shaven, had dark eyes and hair, and always wore a hat and suit.

There was a time when I worried whether some undocumented things had gone on inside my house, possibly involving the dark-haired young man. After obsessing over that idea for about three days, I pushed it out of my mind.

I had a passion for dark and obscure things.

* * *

My cat greeted me at home. She purred and sprung up from her cozy bed on the black leather sofa to rub against my bare legs as I tried not to trip over her.

"Kitty, kitty, leave me alone," I griped. With one hand clutching the parcel I carried, and my heel pushing the door shut behind me, I managed to not trip over my precious darling feline.

I left the white and gold wrapped package on the kitchen counter with my purse and keys.

My shoes clacked loudly until I slipped them off. The blue Yves heels were my favorite go-to pair, because they were stylish, they did _not _clash with a flattering white skirt and sky-blue blouse, and they were comfortable.

Whoever said it wasn't fun to 'grow' a few inches?

Berenice, nicknamed 'Nisa', was the name of my female Singapuran. She was getting on in years, and I'd had her since I was eleven.

Whenever I was writing, working, or taking a shower, she was there with me. I liked her company, considering I was alone most of the time in my home, except for the occasional dinner parties I threw, when I kept her in the laundry room with her food and necessities. She was extremely shy of guests.

After an uneventful shower I returned to the kitchen, Nisa trotting at my heels.

I had forgotten about the package until I was nearly halfway through cooking a portion of couscous for myself. Obviously, I was such a social recluse and had not made plans for any one of my friends to come over to eat tonight.

That little present, so unassuming with its delicate gold tie, was begging me to be opened. I finished cooking my meal, though, avoiding temptation for another few minutes. Once I could sit down to eat I brought the box with me. It wasn't any bigger than my outstretched hand.

Nisa apparently hadn't touched this one. Usually the boxes I left on the counter had to go through their own routine-initiation process, compliments of Nisa's teeth. She loved to eat ribbons and all of the fake plants in my house were chewed up to some degree.

I untied the gold wire, noticing no card, no attachment. It must have been hand-delivered to the postal office. Someone had taken the trouble to find out my name and safety-deposit box number.

Someone had a copy of my key.

Puzzled, astutely puzzled, I still didn't see any kind of harm in opening the little gift, or whatever the hell it was the anonymous person had left for me to find.

I carefully tore the white wrapping paper.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wow. It's been a while since I uploaded, I think. But, as promised, I'm getting down to it. This is a much longer fic post than my others, and guess what! Snape's in it! (But not in the sense that you think, haha) So read on, eager reader(s)!_

_This was an odd chapter, don't get me wrong. There are a lot of loose ends here, but if I'm going to promise anything for Chapter Four, it is just that all will be made known to you. Well, not all. But expect to see more, deeper characters and some real dialogue and more vivid scenes. Also, keep in mind that this is my first fic and I've not done this before…but I WILL NOT BE GIVING UP. I just know that now I've cleared all the mushy, gushy particles out of the way, all of the introductions and quaint friendships—THOSE PEOPLE IN SALEM ARE NOT CRUCIAL TO THE STORY. I just wanted Amy to feel more human to you all, and for you to get a sense for her distress. Don't get me wrong, Salem is a gorgeous place. Anyway—I hope that you like this story, and be sure to check out my second fic, also a WIP—and now, let us begin!_

* * *

Whitewashed walls and blanched ceilings were uniform throughout the interior of the hospital infirmary in the city, where a little girl and her brother were lying side-by-side.

She had cute mousy-brown pigtails and was fast asleep, while her brother drifted in and out of consciousness. The nurse on duty was instructed to keep a close eye on the pair of children, and to watch the boy especially carefully. They had managed to escape the collision with just broken bones. The driver was in shock and his car had taken a bit of damage when it crashed into the median, but other than those important details, no one seemed to be quite clear on how the crash actually occurred.

The account of the driver, muttered very quickly and guiltily to the police, consisted of one sentence, as follows: 'I didn't see them, and then they were there...right there, and I couldn't stop quickly enough.'

"Were you under the influence of alcohol, spirits, or other chemical substances at the time?"

"N-no."

"Were you distracted by other devices in the car? Your cellular phone, your GPS system, any systems within the dashboard or maybe the radio for any point in time?"

"No. My house is just two blocks away from work."

"So you could have easily walked to and from work today?"

The man rubbed his cleft chin nervously as if he realized the hole that he had just created in his story. He didn't usually trust the police-they usually looked to accuse whomever they could. He could almost smell which direction this interrogation was heading. Far south, to be sure.

He sighed aloud in an attempt to calm himself, though the cop understood the exhalation as impatience.

"Sir, you need to answer the question."

"I could have, sir, you are correct." He paused, looking at the policeman. "This morning, my boss asked me to arrive at work early and quickly. There was hardly any traffic on the road, and it sounded quite urgent, so I took my car.

"Obviously, I had to drive it home as well."

* * *

Her shoes were slippers, but she had not just come out of bed.

Marcellus examined their ruby satin gloss, and knew that they made no sound as they approached him. He smiled, expecting her shrill voice any moment now.

The blood was rushing to his head.

"MCCROWE? MCCROWE!"

He scrambled up, pretending to be caught unawares. His pants' knees were dusty from moving along the floor. Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, he smiled pleasantly.

Inwardly, he groaned. He shook his head just slightly at the slightly estranged woman.

"Ah…Silvia. _Always _a pleasure." He nodded to the papers she clutched.

The thin, upright woman regarded Marcellus with a keen but disapproving eye. Her nose was pinched, always pinched, and her eyes were beady. He felt like he was rather staring into the face of a vulture rather than a colleague every time she made eye contact with him.

Her fingers thrust the parchment, and trembled just a tiny bit, as she waited for him to take them from her.

He pulled himself up from the cold castle floor, wincing. He'd been rummaging through his desk for quite some time—and Marcellus was no young spring chicken. The age had snuck up on him, even if it was slow to catch on.

"Yes. What do we have here?" He inquired inquisitively. Attempting a scholarly air, with the pretense that _maybe _he was intently interested in what the Professor had to tell him so direly, he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and scratched at his temple.

"The permission forms—the ones that _I_ _apprehended_ early this morning from a few choice students. Apparently, they thought you wouldn't notice that they had forged their guardians' signatures!"

She huffed aloud, and Marcellus looked up at her, concerned—quite concerned indeed!

"Oh, 'tis alright," he remarked, thumbing through the handful of papers. "I will sort this mess right away." He smiled calmly.

Sylvia combed a twitching hand through her faded brown hair, which was tamed into a very severe bun atop her head. Again, Marcellus believed she was overreacting. He noticed more steaks of phantom-white wispy hairs in that ever-severe bun of hers and each time she came to visit him, complaining about one problem or the next, he made his best attempt to calm her. He was not fond of the possibility that one day, these children would give her a serious bout of some chronic ailment!

Despite the fact that Marcellus McCrowe was the Deputy Schoolmaster, and he did indeed possess powers superior to those of his fellow teachers (which was precisely the reason Sylvia Fetterstaunch came to him for all of her needs and problems), some of the teachers respected him less then he believed they should. He was laid-back and attempted to be friendly with them, but as in Sylvia's case, the frazzled demeanor of the Transformation Mistress often left him just the tiniest bit short. He was ever-patient with his students, but the same was true for them. Thusly, about half of his students passed his course, but simply because about half of his students did not even try to complete the work involved in learning witchery.

His fingers closed around his smooth wand. He hid it in his long jacket pocket; the links of his trousers clinkedtogether softly.

Meanwhile, R. Rigbus Dean was resting peacefully in his Schoolmaster's Office. The luxurious leather chair, dark mahogany in color and cool to the touch, glowed from the light cast by the flames.

The white marble mantle was carved as if of delicate porcelain, tiny details carved smoothly into the surface like an ancient, enormous artifact made from plaster or clay. The gleaming firelight brought out the streaks of gray and light pink in the stone.

Through the open window flew a large brown bird. Its feathers were a mess, ruffled by the wind outside and it crowed haughtily. The arrogant creature flapped its magnificent wings before perching on the desk of its owner. It dropped its head and dropped the package.

Rigbus smiled through his curly mustache and petted the bird's silky head. He then shooed the big creature away hurriedly. "Now, get off my table, you ruddy—"

His hands dwarfed the tiny roll of paper. The scroll revealed a short note written in smooth, cursive script.

_**Requesting your assistance immediately.**_

_**Or, come just after breakfast.**_

**_J.E._**

He scratched his beard. _My good friend still works in the industry? Rumor had it that he left years ago…_

Feeling a pang of sadness for the old man, Rigbus sat in deep thought, and scratched a short reply onto a spare bit of his own parchment. His pet took off with the parcel and disappeared into the gray morning.

Now that his room was quiet again, he clasped his hands and let them fall across his rotund belly. He let his thoughts calm him.

Outside, the trees waved in the wind, and predicted a stormy morning. An uneventful morning. Not even he, not even Rigbus, could possibly know what was occurring beyond this dense forest, on the opposite end of town.

A case had gone unsolved. A child had been injured.

A child had disappeared. A mystery had only begun.

* * *

When I rolled over in bed and woke myself up on a rainy Saturday morning, the first thing I did was make myself a mug of hot cocoa. Confined to bed rest and having missed work on Friday, I was still sick with a dreadful fever attack. Apparently, the powers that were had decided to bestow upon me a lovely little weekend gift.

I sipped from the warm mug, feeling awfully dreary. I recalled the events of the past day.

I remembered driving to work yesterday. My hands were cold and clammy on the steering wheel—I coughed, thinking nothing of the fact that my throat was parched and my fingers were a little shaky. I was alright until lunch—a friend from work and I drove to a Chinese restaurant, which was not such a good idea, after all. The heat somehow affected me greatly, and I was trembling with spurts of cold and hot washing over my bare arms and legs by the time we were heading back. Clarisse drove me to my home, where I submerged into a deep coma-like sleep and didn't wake up "sober" for hours.

She had also been kind enough to fetch the mail and bring it inside—as I could see from the small stack of white envelopes left on the kitchen counter. I took a sip of my hot drink, closing my eyes to the sound of the rain outdoors. Nisa shocked me just then, by rubbing against my foot affectionately. I petted the scruff of her neck.

It was then that I remembered the strange gift. I turned my hand over, examining the ornate object I now wore on my third finger. Thin tendrils of rustic silver formed the circle of the ring, with a glinting black diamond in the shape of a square inset.

And something I hadn't noticed before; I turned my hand over again in the light, and saw the ring change to black. It changed again when I moved my hand back into the light. It glinted up at me, unfazed and looking as normal as ever. Thoroughly puzzled, I rubbed my forehead and thought about how terribly I wanted—needed—to get some real sleep. I was tired. Still, curiosity threatened to get the better of me. I wanted to follow up on the instructions that the note, also enclosed in the box, had given me.

Noon had me in my car again, pulling out of my driveway and fighting the rain pelting the road. The sky was dark up ahead and thunder rumbled loudly, while the lit-up sky occasionally flashed in my windshield and made me drive slowly.

Trying to be cautious, I was paying attention to the road with fixed interest. My eyes never left the place where my headlights shone ahead of me. I felt like I was driving in a little aluminum cage, though for what reason I couldn't quite pinpoint. The storm was making my bones shake; I was on edge as I felt my little corner or the world continuously vibrating around me.

The Coffeehouse on Front Street was practically empty. I was surprised. I parked the car on the street and rummaged around in the floor to dig up a mocha umbrella.

Inside, I seated myself in an empty booth with my back to the window. Steeped in my own exhaustion and a funny churning in the pit of my gut, I leant forward and rested my face in my hands. I actually didn't care that it was improper to stick my elbows up on the table, I just wanted some respite from the fever racking my stomach in waves. Whenever fever came over me, my body usually followed up with a healthy dose of motion sickness and impaired senses, so I was feeling thoroughly like my skin was frozen in plaster and at the same time, I was falling every time I went to sit or stand up.

Jenna surprised me when she put a cold, clammy hand on my forearm and asked for my order. I looked up at her smiling face, and asked for a simple decaf coffee.

On my contact list I had saved the phone number of the man (or woman) who had sent the package to me. Using the most excellent planning skills in the world, I had sent a text as instructed _before _I left the house. It would only be a matter of timing and my contact's driving skills in the rain that would determine how long I would be waiting.

My skin was pale and pasty, yesterday's application of mascara still on my lashes. I applied a coat of shimmery gloss on my dry lips and hoped that I wouldn't have to frighten out of my contact whatever information they happened to possess.

But I sat there, for minutes after my coffee came. I didn't touch the drink. And just when I was about to leave, unwilling to wait much longer, the only other patron in the store stood and, draping his long black coat over his arm, made his way to my booth.

He stared down at me fiercely. I was staring fixedly ahead of me, out the windows and into the street on the other side of the store, when he cleared his throat and made his presence known. My eyebrows drew together. I hadn't seen him enter the store…

He seemed to be waiting for something. An invitation, perhaps. I placed my hands in my lap and nodded to the booth across from me. "This is America, you can sit."

His eyes sharpened almost to a point; I think he could clearly hear the dry tone of my voice. At the same time, I suppose that it made him feel more confident.

He didn't sit, but instead stuck out his own black gloved hand; I shook it as he introduced himself in a gruff, deep voice with a tight English lilt to it: a Mr. Gordon Edwards.

He finally proceeded to sit, and he pulled a folded white paper from his coat. Examining it briefly, his eyes skimmed whatever was typed on the document, and then he passed it to me, folding his hands neatly as I took it from him. It was then that he noticed the ring on my finger. I noticed that his eyes were instantly drawn to it, as if it possessed some sort of strange purpose or meaning to him.

"Hmm," I said aloud, though my eyes were failing to make sense of most of the words on the page.

"What do you make of this," he began, "...strange piece?" I felt his eyes intensely upon my face.

I began to mutter something, but I stopped myself. The words had cleared up, and I was beginning to recognize what, exactly, I was holding. My contact's name in full was printed near the top of the page, with a listing of his contact information and house address below, all neatly arranged and centered. I was looking at a bit of formal stationery from his office, which had a very odd-sounding name to it. The dark gold computer ink was difficult to read in the dim light, but the message written on the stationery itself was clear and distinct, written by a stiff, upright hand.

**_By request-_**

**_Of Baubles and Bits, uncovered handily_**

**_Back parlour in a fuss; Barkeley's trolling again_**

**_Find M. Parrier in Dufftown, or go by Network_**

**_This encoded: 011 44 20 (4552 8298) (9237 3290)_**

**_Inform R. of my suspicions_**

Obviously, I couldn't make sense of the words. Not only was my head in a tizzy, the cryptic note had nothing to do with me whatsoever and I felt like I was swimming in muck. I needed to sleep; the rain hammering the glass windows only made me more drowsy. I looked at Edwards helplessly, but he put up his hands before I could answer.

"Say naught, ma'am. It was merely a test. You needn't ponder this troubling matter too deeply. Although, as it happens," he paused, deftly snatching the stationery from my fingers, "I am not entirely left in the dark. You, perhaps, but not I."

A bit irritated, I leaned into the table, and examined the odd string of numbers again. Possibilities briefly ran through my mind, but more than anything, the striking question remained at the forefront of my brain: _Who is this guy? Why is he even talking to me? Why is this total stranger sitting across from me with no explanation, just a note on a bit of paper that he could've even written himself…_

He didn't smile at me, but his rough voice calmly broke through my reverie, and the overwhelming bank of questions that kept flooding my brain. His very broad forehead creased as he knitted his brows together, and I realized that my confusion and general lack of interest in everything he said was probably very apparent.

He was a bald man, and clean shaven, but while the skin of his forehead was smooth and tight, his broad jawline was rather mottled and he possessed hardly a chin at all. His face was very much like a block with an oval top, and with that serious expression on his face he looked like he hadn't smiled a day in his life.

"Excuse me, sir, but please try to understand, and I am serious when I say that—"

He threw his hands up. "Oh! Please, allow me to explain myself."

I folded my arms and waited.

He sat upright, perfecting his composure. He smoothed the front of his dark gray corduroy suit jacket. "My name…you are aware of it. I am a representative of my organization, an organization founded in this very town." He was going to keep me waiting until the very end of some long, foreign speech that I did not have the patience to hear. I nearly interrupted him when he continued, "I have come to you, fully aware that you and I are unacquainted. It was not a matter of my choosing; rather, some investigative work I have been sifting through led me to you and your…law firm."

_Ah, so he has questions about a case of mine._

"It is not what you may think," he added quickly, and I was surprised to find that it was as though he was trying to put down the very thought that had crossed my mind in that instant.

"I have a clue from whom this anonymous note came." _Oh wonderful, _I thought, _now for what do you need me exactly?_

"The reason that we are meeting here, falls to the fault of that very object you wear on your third left finger. Did you not receive a package in the post containing that specific object?" He pointed to the ring with one sinewy hand. Surprised, I looked sharply down at the glinting silver object on my finger.

_So he _was _the sender of the box! Somehow, this man had my safety deposit box information, and used it to get through to me, in order to pass on the ring. And he gave me his telephone number, so that I could call and meet him in town, the very next day, in order to show me a cryptic note that he for some reason had not just shipped to me in the very same box. Conclusion: this Brit has some issues with planning things ahead of time._

"It is my belief that you should," he paused, and glanced once more at the paper, "consider this letter in full."

"Mr. Edwards, did you send this?" I held up my hand for him to see that I indicated the ring.

He suddenly seemed very taken aback. He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head while placing his very long fingers, as he folded them again, back on the table. _Very _calmly. _Very _slowly.

"You still misunderstand," he proceeded to say. "Forgive me—I have been rather cryptic. Whatever you received in the mail was not of my doing. I also did not write this note that you see here, on this bit of paper, for it would be ever strange to inscribe such a notation to myself. Why, ma'am, would you ever think I would do such an outright silly thing?"

I was as puzzled as he took me to be. Intrigued by the man's odd demeanor as I was, I simply couldn't stomach the fragments of information he was feeding me, like parcels to a vagrant, or scraps thrown to a wolf. I realized that my other hand had moved ever so slightly to touch the cold metal encircling the ring finger of my left hand.

He suddenly leaned towards me, and spoke in a very low, rumbling voice, "You should, perhaps, listen but briefly, for I _do have something of great importance _to impart to you_._"

A deep, rough sigh escaped his lips. He began to show signs of frustration, by rubbing his forehead and looking up and around the small coffeehouse. To me, it looked like he was, out of the blue, extremely anxious about something.

"Ma'am," he spoke. "Did you gain any clues, when you receive the parcel containing this…ring…of the identity of he who sent it?"

I shook my head. I was astutely, truly puzzled.

"Well, the ring seems of great, or at least of decent value, does it not? Have you ever seen it before? If you'll pardon me—I am simply trying to gain clues. It is clear, ma'am, that you were not meant to be mixed up in this most confusing affair." He wiped his brow quickly, and I realized in that instant that maybe I was beginning to grasp the fact that I had indeed been mixed up in something unsavory.

_Stolen? Was this ring stolen? _The thought crossed my mind and I was surprised that it hadn't before. It did possess certain qualities that indicated wealth, time, and other intricacies had been put into its making. But why such a fuss?

"…However, it is not my doing, and I expect you to have patience with me!"

"Mr. Edwards!" I exclaimed, having reached the limit of my frustration. I was amazed that he would be so nervous about a trifling thing such as this! "Please, stop jumping away from all of the questions that I must ask you—if this is stolen property, I would be glad to turn it in—right this very second!"

With that, I moved to grasp and remove the silver circlet—and found that I couldn't help but hesitate just one moment—and I placed it on the table firmly within his grasp. I waited. No movement, no sound, came from him. He continued to stare at me.

"What?" I asked, repulsed by his leering glare.

"You make yourself out to be a very intelligent girl," he said, suddenly stroking his chin very meticulously. "And yet, you truly have no idea of the gravity of this situation, do you?"

I was at my wit's end. Forfeiting my composure, I fell weakly against the back of the booth.

"Just tell me, Edwards. I am finished with this game—and I will walk away if you insist on playing."

He composed his bald face into a very smooth, diplomatic mask. "My organization represents many things, though thievery is not a pillar we support, nor are supported by. We intend to catch a masterful criminal, and it is my personal belief that a criminal of such caliber has contacted you. They have stolen this artifact, which may in your world mean very little or nothing for coin, but our world—is a much different matter."

"Excuse me, but did you just imply that your world and mine are two different things?" I quizzically stared at him. He looked as though he'd realized a grave blunder, but he folded his arms crossly. I could have sworn that he cursed under his very breath just then. "England and Massachusetts are not that different, Mr. Gordon Edwards. I don't know what you're referring to exactly. But my offer stands—I will help you, in any way I can, if this man or woman needs to be caught."

My coffee was cold and tasted like water, which was to be expected, but I hadn't intended on drinking it in the first place. I was surprised to see Mr. Edwards, my companion of about half an hour, gathering his coat as if to depart.

"Should I go to the police? I'm sure they'll want a statement. I'd be glad to give one, really, if it would help," I suggested. He shook his head indignantly. Finally giving up completely, I threw up my hands and looked out the window as he left the booth and, thankfully, was gone. I heard his coat rustling as he hurried from the store.

He had taken the stolen ring, but had left the stationery. I sighed and, not about to chase him down, (for some reason doubting that I would ever be seeing him again) refolded and stuck the stationery inside my purse.

The Mazda's exterior was still being pelted by the steady downpour of rain. On the upside, I was feeling a bit peppier, and up to answering emails when I returned home. With no appetite to speak of, I fell back into a deep sleep (read: crashed) on top of my white duvet without even turning back the covers. My last thought was about how I would begin deciphering the letter that apparently started it all.

* * *

Nurse Pat, or 'Nana', as most inpatients to the pediatric ward of NSMC called her, searched frantically for the boy's file. It should be stored away in the filing cabinet with all of the others. Yet searching for his last name, she realized that she came up empty. The file was gone—it simply wasn't there.

She went to the phone behind the nurse's desk, in the main foyer of the waiting room. Late as it was, no one was here. She felt panic rising in her chest as she dialed with shaking fingers the number to her superior's office.

Clark put her call through almost immediately. "Clark, we have a missing patient—file number 77032, a Hunter Lockerbie. Brother to Lomadia, who is also admitted. They were sleeping next to each other."

Clark's very calm, mellow voice came over the line; it was almost like an antidote to her worry. _"Do you have his file on hand?"_

Pat shook her head. "No. That's missing, too."

"_What do we have on the boy?"_

"I memorized only his file number," Pat continued. "They were both admitted just yesterday afternoon after a car accident…he hasn't even woken up yet. We were supposed to sort all the legalities out tomorrow and maybe send them home."

"_We need that file. Keep looking, and call Hank down in security. Have you done anything yet to alert police in the area? Do you suspect he's been kidnapped?"_

"No, Clark, I'm sorry—I'm just not thinking very well about all this…" Pat hadn't called the police yet. For some reason, she thought if she informed Clark, he'd be able to sort all this out. She never handled these situations well; he palms were sweating furiously, and she couldn't really think of what to do next. He could be wandering the streets—or stolen, carried off by some terrible man into the night.

"_Pat. Call Hank. Ad did you check the closet?"_

"…No. Why?"

"_You never know, Pat. He may have just woken up, gotten a little bit disoriented, and…well, decided to hide. That's a kid's flight response." _Clark's voice was making absolute sense to her. She almost smiled at her own silliness.

_Of course he's down there. And, I probably just misplaced the file._

She said a few more words to him over the phone, and then hung the receiver back up. With her hands on her hips, she assessed the situation. She began pulling drawers out, looking for the one pale yellow folder containing Hunter's patient information. It was then that she heard a boot _squeak_ in the hall behind her.

She froze, listening for anything else.

Nothing.

Trying to remain calm, and hoping it had only been her imagining things, she continued to search the big, rotund desk. _There are plenty of places to look, _she thought, _and plenty of drawers I could have just dropped it in earlier, without thinking._

Suddenly she felt an odd tingling that began just at the base of her neck, and crawled its way down her spine, washing over her arms. She felt cold, and she felt suddenly self-conscious.

_Odd. _She was supposed to be alone, but there was no way she was alone.

Then again, she had been afraid of the dark since she was a kid. Her superior put her on the night shift for the first time yesterday, but until now at the first sign of real trouble, she hadn't had any issues with working during the night.

She continued to quickly search through the papers on the desk, glancing into the dim lights of the waiting room. Four chairs on each side of the room. No one else around. Lights—dim.

She reached for an uncapped pen, and when she turned around because she heard another soft _squeak_, it was closer.

And then a tall man appeared out of the dark, and she hesitated too long.

He pulled something from his pocket—she thought it was a gun. It was long and dark.

He aimed it towards her face, and then it was like she forgot to feel.

But she had the sense that she was falling.

A very nice, pleasant thought came to mind. _I didn't lose the child. I didn't lose the folder. Oh, Clark, it was entirely my mistake…_

_Imperio._

The dark man pried the weapon from her hand with a touch so soft it almost wasn't real. He picked up the phone and held it to her ear, as she submissively dialed the numbers to Clark's office.

* * *

There were daisies all around me; I was standing in a field of gold and green with the sun shining down on my face, and all I could think about: _my allergies are going to kill me._

I fell through a time-warp.

I emerged in another place, where a gruff man dropped an iron mace in my hands and told me something in another language. I heard the clamor of axes clashing together and heavy hammers on iron.

Again, I started to fall for a long time and when the falling stopped the ground underneath me was vibrating. My face shook, my arms flopped uselessly, and I couldn't consciously control my limbs as they flailed. I was submerged in some sort of weird, dark world lying exposed on my backside. My jaws clacked roughly, uselessly, together.

The world jolted back into focus with a flash.

I fell into my own body again, and a wave of fire coursed over me. I finally found I could scream, and I did. I screamed. I heard loud rustling, and felt a series of jolts, like I was being tossed unmercifully, but my body was held fast to something. There were places where the pain was made worse by the straps that held me to the flat surface I lay on, where they chafed my skin, which was immersed in intense pain.

Loud barking noises filled my ears and then I melted away from the world again—or rather, it melted away from me.

I continued to feel my body move, but the pain was gone. Then, for an expanse of time, I felt nothing, just that I was sitting in blackness, like in a pitch dark room. It lasted a second, but it was filled with lots of nothingness. It could have lasted hours.

As I stirred in my mortal form again, I would discover that it had indeed lasted quite some time. The stillness—the withdrawal. I was waking up in a hospital, where a nurse was slowly moving around the room. She collapsed in a chair with the expression of total exhaustion crossing her face. She didn't even look at me until I shifted in bed, and moaned aloud.

I hadn't meant to, but my body felt so strange. I couldn't feel anything but my head at first, and I started to take some very deep breaths in order to keep myself calm.

She arrived at my side with spectral speed, and put a cold hand to my temple. She _tsked_, shaking her head but smiling radiantly, even though her eyes were grey and drained.

"I've been working the night shifts for years, dear, but your story struck me, it…it just…" her voice faded while she continued to stare at me. I quickly regained the ability to clear my throat, and she reached for the glass of water sitting on the end table.

"Now," she took my hand and helped me sit up, "you'll need to show me that you can understand what I am saying. Can you nod?"

I did. Easily.

"Can you move your fingers, dear?"

I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap on the white blanket, and slowly bent my thumb. With some effort, I picked my hand up, and then the other, and brought them to my face. Glad to feel my own skin there, and no disfigurements that I could find, I smiled at the nurse. But then my hands reached the left side of my neck, where a thick covering of bandage was taped down. My smile wavered, and I looked up uncertainly at her.

She stared at me in silence, willing to help me along but as far as I could tell, not about to sympathize very much with me. I looked at her pale skin, middle-aged and fairly weathered—she just stared back blankly.

"Can you say your name?"

"Wtstisit…" I began, but my dry throat prevented me from making any sense. I coughed hoarsely, and carefully reached for the glass. She helped me close my fingers around it and brought it to my mouth.

"What's this…"

She smiled sadly. "It will scar, dear. But you were lucky. It shouldn't even be too noticeable."

I nodded, feeling the stiff tape on my neck again. The bandage didn't quite bother me; nor did the fact that my foot, partially exposed under the covers, was also not free of injuries, and when I shifted myself on the bed I could feel the restrictive bandages around my entire torso. I lay a hand tentatively on my belly. I felt very cold, like the world didn't matter for some time.

She retrieved my chart, thumbing through the few pages, including an x-ray pinned also to the clipboard.

"I would like to see that, please." She hesitated, but she allowed me to read the information. She returned to her feeble chair by the window, on the other side of the kitchen-sized room.

I coldly read through the details of my injuries. On both my feet and my back, I had been burnt. There had been a fire, which resulted in my being unconscious, and the paramedic had left his notes with my report, stating that had I not closed both the hall and bedroom door, the team would have reached me not soon enough. My lungs were relatively undamaged. He had found my bedroom and bathroom windows cracked open, because by some stroke of luck, I had opened them to hear the night sounds of the neighborhood. The fire team was stationed close, and Salem was dead most nights, so my bedroom had escaped almost unharmed. A list of possessions found on or near me included my mobile phone, shoes, my Palm, and spiral notebook/planner.

They had put me through surgery the minute I arrived in the hospital, after I reportedly woke up screaming during the ambulance ride, and had removed my appendix and stitched a gash across my thigh.

I received a visitor early in the morning, and welcomed him with a huge bear hug. He brought me coffee, which the nurse confiscated from him, but after she left us both alone he pulled a concealed bag from his coat and I earnestly unwrapped it.

"Oh, my God, Ben." Two bagels from the bakery, both were toasted cinnamon-raisin and warm in my hands. I laughed aloud and slapped a hand over my mouth, throwing a glance at the door.

"I know the quality of food here. Service is good, but they pretty much starve you," he said, unfazed.

I smiled. "The nurse tried to give me some mushy drink this morning that I swear tasted like shit." I nibbled on the food. "It'll take a week to get the aftertaste out of my mouth."

He grinned lopsidedly. "Hey, you're alive! I'm so glad about that, Ames." He flashed a winning smile that had the ability to make even me feel better.

I tore into the bagels, hoping to save us both before the nurse returned to kick out Ben, even though I wanted him to stay all day. He just had that ability to make me feel kinder, to lift me up, to make me smile and feel cozy.

He was like a candle; I kept turning to him when I least expected to.

"So," I said after a minute of bagel-munching, "they say the fire was started by a gas leak. But that's it. I guess all they could tell was that it started in the kitchen and didn't really touch the garage. Or, my bedroom." I sighed. "But just about everything else…gone, you know?"

I felt my chest falling in, but I was not going to start bawling in front of one of my closest friends. Insurance probably would cover most of the costs of damage and I wasn't without funds to get by, but I was thinking about little Nisa.

Where was she? What happened to her? She wasn't mentioned in the report at all. But that also meant that when the team searched the crisp remains, they hadn't found anything resembling a little body. Then again, she was so small she wouldn't be seen…

"Hey, Amy, I'll take care of the practice, okay?"

I nodded sullenly. The plaster-white walls came back to me all too quickly. I looked at Ben.

"We can make it through this, right?" His face was open, encouraging, and a little stubble of beard grew on his chin.

"I went through your contacts, okay? I hope that was okay with you. Nurse didn't want to let me speak to the doctor, she said you were in capable hands, that you would be well-taken care of, but I was able to give him proof that we worked together."

I nodded, and finished the last few bites of bagel.

"So I expect to see you back soon. Tough girl," he joked, smiling sheepishly.

"You know I never stay down long," I mused, returning his smile.

He grew quiet, and then stood up, walked over to my bed, and sat down. I moved around to save my legs from being sat on. But he just sat there, looking at me. He picked up my hand and stared at it. It was faintly cut-up and bruised up to my shoulder.

"Is there anything you want to say? Anything you wish to tell me, Amy?"

"Like…what?"

He shook his head. He looked a bit lost, genuinely lost, and he shrugged. "I don't know. I just have developed an uneasy feeling around you lately. I hope that nothing strange has been going on, because you know you can come to me for anything." He looked at me, searching my eyes. "Amy, are you okay?"

I was falling asleep, with a sleep I couldn't control. I think I waved Ben off with my hand, but I yawned and fell back into the pillow, feeling unable to really move. I gave in, and gave Ben a weak smile before shutting my eyes.

* * *

"You have it with you, Jonathan?"

A bald man turned around, sporting an old-fashioned pipe. He recognized his long-time colleague and waved him over hurriedly. His fingers scrambled behind him, nervously closing around the paper lying on his writing desk. He produced the sheet and handed it to Rigbus.

"What, pardon…did they tell you?"

Rigbus scratched his beard in deep thought and hummed dismissively. "Oh, that our friend had left you a note. It was important, they said…and I should see it." Rigbus peered up at Jonathan.

Edwards was a tall man, though not by any means a giant. Wizards came in many shapes and sizes, however, but as far as removed cousins went, the two could not have differed in greater ways. Rigbus was a bit on the stout side, and of average height. He had a round and cheery face, with crinkles around the eyes and deep-cut smile creases in his cheeks. His hair was neat, though he wore a beard, and brown-and-grey speckled. On the other hand, Jonathan was without facial hair at all, had a sort of block chin and an egg forehead, and a very long, thin nose. He also possessed a very spotty, fleeting sense of humour.

Jonathan produced the note, which was printed on his own stationery, with his full name printed at the top: Jonathan G. Edwards.

The corners of the paper were slightly burnt.

* * *

I was out of the hospital again when the burns had been treated well enough for me to stand and not be in pain. My possessions returned to me, the nurse on-staff drove me around to the hospital lot, where my car had been towed and parked. She smiled sweetly and helped me out, handing me a silver key.

"We had this made for you. Your car's right over there." She smiled again. I uttered a thank-you, wrapping my corduroy jacket tighter around me, even though it was a hundred and three degrees and there was no moving air under the parking garage. I still felt a shiver running up my spine.

I drove home. I didn't know where else to go. Shocked, I sat in my car looking at the wheel, looking at the road ahead, and not knowing where it would end up taking me.

When I pulled into my neighborhood, I parked on the opposite side of the road, across fromvwherevmy home once was.

I didn't look at it for a long time. But when I did finally move to get out of the car, I stared at it and felt a bit helpless. I then noticed a glint of metal coming from the smoky ruins of my home, from inside the single-car garage. Or what was left of it. The cavity of the garage, mostly cleared of rubble, was connected to a shell of the wall of my house. The frame of my front door was upright as well, but everything else was just blackened, like a small cavity in the earth. Half my lawn was sooty and burnt, but the fire had been stopped from reaching anyone else's home.

I got out of my car.

Somebody's dog barked from their house—just the sharp noise gave me chills. I'd shredded my pastel yellow jacket in the car. I was just in some loose jeans and black flats now—simple clothes I was told a girlfriend had brought to the hospital for me to wear.

I stopped, and returned to the Mazda, grabbing my mobile phone. I went ahead and turned the ignition off and ventured across the street. While I crossed, I checked for missed calls. Finding that none were listed, I pocketed the phone and slipped my key also in my back pocket.

Waking up to the ruins of my home was like waking up from a surreal dream. What I'd hoped to find when I got back home—when I woke up—was my quaint, cheery little bedroom and metro kitchen, my just-big-enough living area with the black leather designer couch and two matching chairs. Instead I found black rubble, just like they told me I would.

My knees were weak—I felt an urge to just curl up. I sniffled and felt wetness prick my eyes. Quickly, I wiped my nose and started to walk. I walked through the empty, charred door frame. Down the hall and to my left, reliving the experience. The tile underfoot was cracked and sooty, hardly distinguishable at all. All of the work I had put into renovating this little home—gone. I could buy a new house, but I was feeling the shock that accompanied all of this, and it was all I could do to take it as well as I was.

_God. God, why am I crying? _I thought. _What's going on? Why…why me? _

_It's…just a house. My house. Clarisse and John will probably help me find a new one. Definitely Ben will help. Oh, God, I need to work…I'm…still working a full-time job…I'll just go to the bank, and stay in a hotel, or maybe stay with someone for a few weeks._

I was in the garage now, which had held up pretty well compared to the rest of the home. The concrete was sort-of in place, and some of my things were pretty untouched. A very soft breeze drifted in; I looked back out at the street, looking at my parked car on the other side of the road. It was nice and comfortable sitting there, but the whole time I stared at it I was thinking how wrong it looked over there, while it should be _in here._

There was that strange glint again.

It caught the corner of my eye and I started stepping over boxes and rusty, discarded bricks and nails (basic trash) to get to it. It was a solid box sitting on my workbench, covered mostly in dust and soot. It was also heavy. Funny, though—I didn't remember owning it or having it here in the first place.

It was also a small safe, with a combination lock. The lock faced the wall, discreetly hidden from view. Only when I decided to pick it up to take it out into the daylight on the street did I feel the cold knob.

I dusted off the box, feeling a sort of strange, near-eerie feeling.

I started to shiver again, and I felt like maybe it would be a good idea for me to turn around—

The hallway was empty behind me.

I had thought I heard a noise. Just a faint, faint noise.

I picked up the old stool I kept tucked under the work table and set it beside the desk. My odd superstitions told me to sit…with my back facing the hard concrete wall.

I stared at the box or a little while. Then I started to try combinations. It was a simple, three-number code, from the look of the lock itself. And I had no clue how to get it open. Curiosity had gotten the best of me and I wasn't ready to carry the thing out to my car—yet. I'd already tried to move it, but my muscles were still a bit flimsy after several days' worth of bed rest and no exercise.

I tried the lock code for my deposit box, the last three digits of my SSN, but nothing. I also tried the corresponding digits to my initials—all combinations of my initials: AVR, AVL, ALR. Nothing.

Maybe a telephone number? But whose? Next I input the area code for Salem, MA, which obviously would turn up nothing. I tried the first and last three digits of my phone number.

_Could there be another number? Another area code? _And then, I started to think about an extension and a possibility. What countries would I need an extension for?

I pulled out my mobile phone and it started to click into place. I suddenly looked up, remembering the odd visit from the British investigator, Gordon Edwards. My mind immediately categorized him in a whole new genre of 'weird' as I began to wonder why, exactly, so many strange things had happened around the time he asked to meet me. Well, according to him, it wasn't he who did the asking.

I Google-searched the extension codes to patch a call through to London, Great Britain. It was obvious, but a start. I could go through all the major towns in Britain if I needed to.

I scrolled to eleven, which was the extension code for a call outside of the USA. Next I scrolled to forty-four, the code to call a phone within Great Britain. The third number, twenty, would patch me through to a London phone. I tried the lock, and to my surprise, the door clicked submissively and opened.

Inside was the silver ring.

My fingers were trembling and they slipped from the safe and fell into my lap. I started to breathe quickly, suddenly afraid of something very self-conscious, very unnatural—

I couldn't stay in the bleak house anymore. It wasn't my home. Just hours ago, it felt like, it had been. What was it now?

Imagine my discomfort, sitting in my desolated home in the middle of the afternoon, taking a pretty wild memory trip and going from feeling hopeless, to completely anxious to find an object most obviously placed in broad daylight, for me and only me to see and understand.

Oh, yes—I've read quite a few suspense novels, don't get me wrong. Usually at this part of the story, the protagonist wonders if there is a conspiracy, a fabricated lie somewhere that existed and a villain who sought to kill me by setting fire to my home, and then later leaving this…this token that had nothing to do with me, yet I couldn't get rid of it—just to taunt me.

_Edwards had possession of the ring. Did he do this? Because I will hurt the bastard._

I felt like my mind was being played with. My phone had saved his number and I almost pressed the Call button immediately.

_What if I am a little bit wound up, though?_ I interrupted myself. I should get out of here, get to a hotel for tonight, stop by the Pharmacy and grab some powder and lotion and snacks, and then figure this out after I've had a decent night's rest.

_Do you want to know what was so cruel about it all?_

I hadn't had a decent rest in days, and I was looking forward to linen sheets—real linen—and a soft down comforter to keep me warm in the hotel's bed. A television.

But I never did get my decent night's rest.

Because I decided to take that damn silver ring out of the safe. I reached in and picked it up.

The instant I touched it, I felt very cold. And, believe me, the feeling was heaven compared to having your organs sucked out of your torso, and your bones twisted like licorice.

I felt _that _next.

I thought it would never end, it was so excruciating. But it did, and it ended in total, blinding whiteness.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Five. Finally, right? Here goes, my readers. Enjoy. I plan on finishing this story, after all. Let me know if you approve or have ideas or critique. All is welcome!_

* * *

There was a blurred whiteness, luminescent and bright, bleeding into my sight. I struggled to open my eyes, but couldn't tell whether or not what I was seeing was real.

White. All around me, piles of white. Like powdered flour, it looked soft, but like crystals of sugar, it gleamed.

I sat up, but immediately my head began to fall sideways, though I caught myself just in time. I swayed, blinking openmouthed, as the powdered flakes of…_what, snow?_ …fell on my bare chest and on my jeans.

First came the shock of cold—sweet, bitter cold. Like a freight train it smacked my face as the wind whipped across my skin. I shivered so deeply that I could feel the cold bite trough me, throughout my body and down to the bone. In an instant, my blood started to race and anxiety crept up, out of the pit of my stomach and into a deep-seated place in my heart. I searched the wilderness for anything familiar, though in my present state I couldn't make sense of hardly any of it.

Teeth chattering, I slowly dug my hands into the white snow drift and stood up with no small amount of force. I could feel my bones already slowing down, unwilling to shake off the freezing tones that the sudden change in climate had wrought.

_Where was I? How...?_

When I stood alone, I instantly pitched forward dizzily, my vision blurred by my frozen tears, elicited from the sharp sting of blizzard snow in my eyes. Back on my knees in the harsh, unforgiving cold, I coughed weakly, trying in vain to shield my face from the onslaught of whipping wind and stinging ice crystals. My jeans were soaked throughout and it was all that I could do to force myself to stand up. _Get up! _I shouted at myself. _Move! Find something, anything! Anyone!_

I shielded my eyes with one hand, searching and turning, frantic and despairing quickly. I began to tread heavily through the snow piles, aware that my feet were wholly soaked with freezing water, and that my pants below the knees were hopelessly frozen just as well, though they were plastered to my skin.

A deep, freezing blast of wind screamed against my body and through the gorge, though I was so desperately trying to keep my line of sight that I didn't see—didn't care—from which direction it had come. All I knew was that the instant it hit me, my shoulders crumpled even against my efforts not to flinch at the shock, but I pressed on. White flurries blew all around my face, but I was in no one's winter wonderland dream. I couldn't see enough to even make note of landmarks, trees or otherwise. I thought that maybe if I could find perhaps a tall, thick tree or a rocky outcropping, I could even wait the blizzard out. Surely one of this magnitude wouldn't last very long at all. The storm would tire itself out too quickly.

My feet dragged on, wearier and wearier, until I was sure that I could no longer feel my toes. Or, for that matter, my feet and ankles.

My legs were growing fuzzy and awkward under me, and I stumbled several times. I shook my hands tirelessly, willing with all my spent reserves of strength to keep them warm.

The blasts of wind came totally unexpectedly, with no warning whatsoever but a high-pitched, mocking squeal about a quarter of a second before its lasting effects punched my shoulder and stomach. I had closed my eyes, and was either too anxious or too weak to open them now. The wild snow flurries threatened my eyes with pinpricks of cold precipitation and stinging lashes by the wind. So I stretched out my hands and hoped that any solid barriers in my way would collide first with my cold palms, and not my tender face.

The last blast of biting wind finally sent me reeling. I tripped, stumbled, and fell. My long, dark hair fell around my neck and I at least thought to soften the fall by throwing my forearms down where my head hit earth.

The frozen tears streaking from the corners of my eyes were cold against my skin, but they vaporized almost as quickly as they formed. The cold wind simply blew them away.

My body couldn't stand this cold. It was more chilling than anything I had felt before, ever, in my life. My mind couldn't comprehend how I had come to find myself in the thick of it.

I lay crumpled in the snow, oblivious to the sound of footsteps or running water.

* * *

"_Quickly, let us take the poor girl inside! She'll freeze to death in the storm, Philbus, for Merlin's sake!"_

"_Quit rushing me, lady. I'm an old man..."_

"_Oh, open the gates. I'll take it from here, then. Help me cast a warming charm!"_

"_Tepid old witch," _the old man seemed to scowl. His voice flitted in and out of my range of hearing, but I could sense it was feeble and parched.

"_I'll die of old age before you've even pulled your wand, and by Merlin, she'll have died too!"_

The voices ceased and the whirling sound of the merciless wind whipped again in my ears, deafening me. My body suddenly felt less frozen, and I felt my consciousness slipping—it faded in and out, slowly like rippling water, and I was lulled into the peaceful hum of sleep.

However, as soon as darkness closed around me, a series of shocks racked my body, though as soon as I opened my eyes I realized I was in another place entirely, and the smoky, hazy quality of the air suggested I had entered a dream.

It felt far too forlorn and distant a scene to be dream, however, and so for the moment I was utterly at a loss. My body and hands did not feel cold, but since when did we ever feel our skin properly sealed around our own bones in a dream? Since when did anything feel truly right in a dream, as compared to living life?

Dark shadows flitted at the corners of my vision, frightening me with the sharper and sharper intake of each breath. Maybe I couldn't feel my hands and feet in this revelation, but I could hear my own gasping breaths. I could feel the tight, cold slip of fear sitting like a boulder in my heart, compressing my lungs.

I could hear movement, a soft sloshing sound that could only be described as eerily _gut-wrenching_.

I stood completely still, but glancing to my right, left, and at my feet, I saw ground. I saw earth, still objects forming the landscape, and a lake. In the dream, I was standing at the sandy edge of a dark lake. The fog receded, and with it the obscuring _blackness, _the previously inoppressible mist that had rendered all of this invisible to me. It was as if slowly, and with great caution, it simply shrank away from me. I had willed it away, and now it was gone.

The whole vision was very surreal, the trees so dark and tall that they seemed to end in the sky. Which, by the way, was high above me and black as pitch. It was a different kind of darkness, however...one dotted by faint stars whose glow shone through the thick, tangled canopy of lush leaves.

The soft night air shook the branches of the massive forest, as well as made me shiver and rub at the goosebumps on my arms. My fingertips touched fine linen, for I wore a long, flowing, white gown that barely brushed the earth. As I slowly took my hands away from the beautiful silk cloth in shock and wonder, I heard a sudden, quick rustling in the woods.

I looked sharply up, my gaze steady and cold, searching the deep, silver waters of the lake. Nothing was there, after all. I slowly turned around, my eyes unblinking as I scanned the trees for movement. There was nothing, no one at all.

_SSSssssssss..._

The whisper was at first silent, and it began in my left ear. At first, it was ever so quiet...but it increased in magnitude with each passing breath I took and I finally noticed it as something separate, something new.

Following the source of the shrill whistle, I spun to face more darkness. But in the darkness I could see the outlines of the tall trunks of trees, and two much shorter figures facing me. They either stood very far from me, or they were very small people. Two men, staring back at me.

One was tall, the man to his right less so. I felt no fear, but a pressing desire to say something. However what frightened me next was that I could not speak. My gums were jelly, my lips numb to sensory commands. Startled, I touched my index and first fingers carefully to my mouth, and when I looked back at the exact spot where I had seen them before, I was disheartened to find the two men had vanished. Their shadows had dissipated into nothing.

I strained to see out into the dark night, but the dream began to slough away before my eyes. The rapid dissolution of the trees left me with a throbbing, out-of-place migraine that jolted me back into reality all to quickly.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of whispering voices, though it was difficult to tell one apart from another, as all were hushed and confusing to me.

"She's wearing muggle garb." I recognized the female voice, older and raspy.

"Could have wandered in from the town..."

"You old fool, she can't have _walked _this far up the mountain!"

"I found _this..._"

I blinked slowly, the world coming into focus. Soft white sheets crumpled up in my closed fingers; I slowly worked the stiffness out of my joints, surprised to find myself in...completely unfamiliar surroundings. A nurse was standing at the foot of the bed on which I lay, and once she noticed me trying to position myself to sit forward on the gurney, her eyebrows knitted together with concern and she rushed to my side.

The woman wore a white body apron with some beige stains smeared across the front. I glanced at her face, from her horn-rimmed glasses to her gray frizzy bun, and I smiled and looked away, my cheeks tinged pink in slight embarrassment. I didn't know her name, yet she'd found and taken me inside.

I didn't know where...but I knew that I was warm.

Her hands were soft, but I didn't miss the split-second hesitation on her part to take me by the arms and help me sit up. This made me curious, but I thought little of it.

I swayed on the bed and when I finally felt brave, swung my legs over the side, feeling my toes scrape on the bare concrete floor.

There was an older woman in a flowing, dark green gown who stood near the door with her back to me. When she turned to face the nurse and say something, she stopped mid-speech, stared at me with eyes slightly wide and mouth a little agape, and quickly hid something in her sleeve. I saw she had been lighting an ornate candelabra. The flickering flames cast a nice, orange glow on the beige stone walls of the elongated room, which appeared to be an infirmary of sorts.

My spirits fell. It appeared to be past nightfall, and I still had no idea where I had landed. How would I get back home?

"Where...where am I?" I tentatively asked the nurse.

She parted her lips to speak to me, but the older woman rushed over. She smiled down at me, her eyes dark brown and peering over her half-moon silver spectacles. She was tall and haggard, but that didn't bear on the effeminate grace with which she moved swiftly towards me. I glanced down at the dark slippers she wore, hearing that they made no sound on the stone.

"H—hello," I said softly, "Pardon, where am I?"

She tsked her tongue and helped me stand. "You're in a safe place. What's your name, dear?"

"A—Amy. I'm afraid this is all some kind of mistake," I apologized. I held out my hand, but saw that it was empty, and the ring was gone.

"Errr..." I began, looking uncertainly from the nurse to the tall woman.

Finally, an older, squat man with a square jaw stepped forward. He wore a tweed violet jacket, and frumpy, dark burgundy corduroy trousers. His bow-tie wiggled slightly when his adam's apple bobbed as he spoke. "Dear, are you looking for the ring, perchance?"

He took my hands and clasped them in his own. "Yes," I began. "It was in my hand, when I came here...I swear..."

He nodded, opening and closing his slack jaw as if in thought. He replied, "Well, my dear, we have your ring. Odd bauble, that, my dear." He pulled the glimmering object out of his pocket, wrapped in a taupe woven kerchief with the insignia _P.B. s_titched in dark purple.

I refrained from touching it, for the three of them were making me very nervous. I placed my hands in my lap, speechless.

"Why don't you start by telling us how you got caught it that awful storm outside?"

I shook my head despondently, but she pressed on.

"How did you come by this ring? Who gave it to you?" She came to the bedside and sat next to me. Her questions were both ruthless and frustrating to deflect, but I simply listened. It was all I could do.

Finally I felt the doubt welling up inside me. Her tone of voice had morphed into something less plaintive and maternal, something less caring, and into angry, confused, wild guesses. I would argue she was about as fed up as I.

"I don't have a clue," I retorted, my fists clenched hard at my sides.

"I mean...I do know; it came by mail. But I haven't a clue how or why, or what it has to do with me." I paused and met the older woman's eyes. She continued to stare down at me, like a hawk eyeing its prey. Though her face was the wizened map of a very aged lady, she stood there with this very surreal, graceful air about her that both frightened and intrigued me at the same time.

"Who are you, anyway? Please," I asked, "I feel I must know. I know little else, after all...and in the last day I've only lost my _house_, my _things,_ and _possibly_ _my_ _sanity."_

* * *

"Nurse Annette, run and fetch some water for the Miss," Philbus, Professor of Arithmancy and my good friend of many decades, asked the nurse.

She sheepishly nodded and I sighed, placing my spindly fingers on the bridge of my nose and shutting my eyes thoughtfully.

"Minerva, I think that in light of my curiosity, our interests would be most gratifyingly upheld if we were to question the girl further. Perhaps we could glean of some hidden fact that might clue us in as to how she acquired this...fantastic object," he suggested, holding the glinting ring up in the light.

How intricate it was, and how preciously carved. I cast a swift glance upon the woman who sat staring at us, dumb and speechless in my eyes, and I hugged my nightgown tighter around my bosom. Did I enjoy decoding this mystery? No. Philbus and I had already discerned that the ring, though it was engraved with no crest or magical insignia, had been used for dark purposes. It had obviously been converted into a portkey, though when I attempted to unlock its magical secrets, it sealed itself up, and I was uncertain of whom or what had cast the charm on it. It seemed that the portkey effect had worn off, however, but I had refrained from touching it. I did not feel comfortable being even this close to the eerie piece that had occluded its dark properties from me so easily.

I sniffed at the ring with indignance, and turned to the muggle woman. "Do you recall anything prior to your...experience?"

She thought for a moment and then replied, "I was in my home. I live in Massachusetts. All I remember is finding the safe, and the combination was...eleven, forty-four, twenty," she stated, pausing. I could shed no light on the mystery yet, and she saw with dismay that the sequence meant nothing to me, so on she continued.

"Gordon Edwards," she recited tactly. "Do any of you know him?"

"What about the Inspector?" Philbus piped up beside me, curiously. The name was not familiar to me.

"Edwards first contacted me. It was odd that he knew I had received the ring by mail, but claimed he had not sent it to me in the first place. He thought that ring," her eyes fixed on the piece, "was a stolen artifact. I was afraid," her eyes cut downward, "that he'd accuse me of stealing it, but he seemed understanding. Anyway, he imparted a note with me, asked me to get back with him after I examined it, and then..." her voice quickly faded.

The silence was interrupted by Philbus, who bellowed, "What in Grindelwald's name is Edwards doing bogged up in this? I had no idea he was working for the Institute in Salem."

I cut a glassy, cold-eyed stare and that silenced him.

"Please," I asked, "continue, my dear."

Her breathing was stunted by slight tremors as she responded, "...My home. It burned in an accident. That paper burned with it. I'm afraid the...Inspector, as you call him," she nodded to Philbus, "thought it had something to do with the ring, but he acted like he knew nothing about what it actually meant. It's lost, anyway."

"Do you remember the words?" I asked.

She stammered, "Yes, I think so. I have excellent memory. I'm an attorney."

I waited patiently for her to continue, unimpressed and tired though I was.

She began,

"_Of Baubles and Bits, uncovered handily_

_Back parlour in a fuss; Barkeley's trolling again_

_Find M. Parrier in Dufftown, or go by Network_

_This encoded: 011 44 20 (4552 8298) (9237 3290)_

_Inform R. of my suspicions"_

Suddenly, she stopped. I opened my eyes, committing the passage to memory.

"I know now what the numbers mean," she announced. "Eleven, forty four, twenty...the code to the lock. They could mean something else, though," she added thoughtfully.

"...Yes, perhaps. Philbus, I suggest we speak privately," I added aside to my friend.

* * *

The tall woman named Minerva whispered something in a hushed voice to her colleague. I looked nervously from Minerva to...Phil? Was that his name? I rubbed my temple absently with the pads of my fingers.

The nurse brought the glass of water she'd promised and I smiled in thanks. I hadn't realized I was even thirsty, let alone nearly parched. And the small glass was beautiful...cut from crystal, and just the right size and weight for my hands, it was indeed very attractive and whimsical.

I suddenly felt very uncomfortable as I saw Minerva straighten, and both the nurse and her colleague-friend bade her good evening. Nurse Annette walked away, and he left the infirmary with a loud creaking of the massive oak doors.

Minerva paced at the foot of my bed. "Yes?" I asked warily.

"Oh, I'm only thinking to myself," she replied, "You'll do the same when you are as old as I," she added, with a soft laugh afterwards.

"I'm going to return you to your home. I think it is for the best. I don't know how you found this place, or how you came by that ring, but you were correct—it is valuable, and an artifact of great importance to me. To us."

"Why?" I interrupted.

She stopped, pressing her lips firmly together. I sensed I wasn't going to force anything out of her.

"It is of no importance to you. Again, I say, do not worry—my dear, you are shaking," she noticed. I quickly set down the glass I was holding.

"I'm just a little dizzy," I responded. As I placed the crystal glass on the bedside table, I noticed my phone lying there. Of course, it was non-functional. It had probably been freeze-soaked ten times over in the snow.

"I fear...to Obliviate you may not be wise until you've rested."

I did a double-take. "Sorry, what?"

She smiled as if the answer was obvious. "My dear, you cannot stay here. I do not know how you wish to go on in the muggle world, but this is no place for you. I'll simply take you home once night has passed. That is all," she clasped her hands and called to Annette.

"Oh, Annette, please draw the cloth so our guest may rest. No questions, no visiting, _please," _Minerva emphasized. She swiftly departed, her gown trailing the ground.

I was left shell-shocked, amused, and slightly bewildered.

Annette bade me good evening and drew the privacy curtain.

* * *

In the morning, I discovered the change. I was startled to find my ankles and abdomen healed surprisingly cleanly. I wasn't even sore.

Confused, I drew back the curtain and peered around inside the room. I was now the only one in the infirmary. That included the absence of Annette. I had no clue how early it was, but I reasoned it was no later than seven. The windows were still dark; only a light tinge of rosy pink filtered through the large, gothic panes. I cursed the fact that I was so accustomed to rising early for my job and though about how nice it would be to take a hot shower and wash away all of my confusion.

That wasn't going to happen, though.

I'd fallen asleep in a white robe the nurse had given me, though I wore my shirt and jeans underneath. Hugging the cozy wool around me, I padded across the large room in my bare feet, wishing for socks. The room was so drafty, but I couldn't figure why.

I pulled open the monolithic doors and stood open-mouthed.

What was this? A fucking castle? I crossed my arms in disbelief of what I was seeing.

Closing the door softly, I breathed in the gothic arches and dusty old stone of the long corridor. Long, eerily quiet, and dark if not for the flickering torches hanging along the length of the hall, it gave me the shivers. The castle's cold draft lifted my hair and played with my shirt, and so I decided to find where the cold airwas entering from.

I explored the corridor and stopped when faced with the choice. The enormous halls split in three directions. Ahead of me were a set of stairs. To my left and right, the halls gaped into near blackness as the sun hadn't yet shed its light on the castle. Hugging my robe closer to my chest, I took the left route, thinking, _Onward and downward...off we go._

I wanted to stay in the shadows, though it made me feel more like what I was doing—sneaking about in a totally strange building—was conceptually wrong. Still, I wasn't going to pad around without some cover. I knew that I was frightened of what the consequences may be, if, say, someone were to find me...but I wanted to ignore them for now. Curiosity had the better of me.

As usual.

Of course, once Annette noticed I was missing, she'd no doubt be searching all over for me.

Time to get out of the light, slip into the shadows. I felt my stomach turn in a sickening (read: excited) flip. I padded along in the near darkness, slowly, carefully walking at a comfortable pace.

I placed my palm on the cold wall and kept it there as I moved silently down the dark passage. The ceiling was not nearly so high as it had been and the air was less frigid. I came to a set of stairs leading down. Fumbling for the rail, I felt for the first step. The moonlight filtering in through the glass paned windows provided little help; only avery twelfth step or so was illuminated by the soft, steady, silver beams of light.

The night sky was as black as I had never seen it before.

I remembered the city apartment I lived in during my college stay in New York. The city lights were so bright in the metropolitan area that I rarely ever turned the lights on at night to find my way around.

Drawing that comparison made me feel suddenly very...alone. I felt as though I'd been dumped in the wilderness with nothing to connect me to home, no way to get back to my own, and that feeling was foreign to me and difficult to grasp—until now.

I started when I thought I heard fast footsteps from far away. Did I recognize the nurse's loud heels on the cobblestone floor?

Leaving the window, I quickly snuck down the stairs, which were curved in a tight cylinder. I kept peering below me as I circled lower and lower, descending through the tower. It seemed there was no end in sight to these stairs!

Taking the first exit, I carefully stepped out into another long walkway. The sun was rising slowly, and so my shadows were quickly diminishing. _Hmmph._

I passed a dark door that looked to be bolted shut. And another one. No denotation tod me what they were being used for.

Again I rubbed my upper arms, for the chilly atmosphere was beginning to get on my nerves.

The next door was more than ten paces on. It suddenly swung open as I darted behind it, making my back flush against the wall.

A tall man emerged and I prayed he wouldn't turn around and see me. My shoulders tensed, the strain of standing absolutely still threatening to betray me—I quietly clapped a hand over my mouth and kept as still as I could.

The door scraped across the stone and I cringed at the awful sound. He had already begun to stride off, but with an audible sigh he spun around and closed the door fully. So intent was the man on fumbling for something in his left jacket pocket that he failed to see me partially hidden just a few feet away. My heart thudded, but I kept still.

He pulled something long and thin out of his coat and light suddenly glowed from the tip, bright and yellow.

He glanced up and saw me, heard my stifled gasp. Pointing the stick at me, he illuminated my face though I stood in shadow. I slowly felt my hand fall away from my mouth and a cheeky, nervous grin slowly spread across his face.

"Oh, I didn't see you there. Pardon, what were you doing outside my door?"

His quaint accent cooed at my ears. I didn't expect him to be so cheeky. Not at all. All I could do was stammer and stare back at him, openmouthed and in shock.

"I...I'm sorry," I began.

He jerked back, hearing my highly un-English accent. Cocking his head a little to one side, he asked, "Why, you aren't from here at all, are you?"

I shook my head. "It's a very long story."

"Ah. Usually is." He waved the light-stick away from my face and I relaxed. Finally able to see his face in better light, I started to study him.

"I didn't mean to startle you," I said. "I was just...walking around," I chuckled nervously.

He cast a quick glance down the hall and fished for a silver pocketwatch to check the time. "I see. You aren't a student, so I cannot torture or ruin you indefinitely," he commented brusquely.

I did a double-take. _Students? Okay..._

He frowned at my surprised face. "Only joking, of course," he added. "I trust you can find your way back, then?"

I only nodded as he waved his wand dismissively. Biting my lip, I watched him walk in the other direction, the light from his stick fading as he turned a dark corner.

Alone again, a cold feeling of uneasiness drifted around me. I looked behind me, but seeing no one there, started walking in the direction the tall man had disappeared.

Shoeless, it was easy for me to hear the soft, fast footfalls approaching me. They seemed to be coming from the way he had turned. I flattened my back against the wall again and watched two figures walk past with their backs to me. They looked like a couple of teenaged girls. They wore long, black, matching cloaks.

_Maybe he was serious. I'm in some sort of a boarding school. What kind of school looks like this?_

I peered around the corner and darted around the corner, hugging myself tighter with the increasingly cold feeling pressing against my back. I snuck quick peeks around the corners and essentially tried to stay out of anyone's way. The sun was rising. I had no idea what sort of consequences I would be facing if someone found me.

I found a room with a sign. It said: _MUGGLE STUDIES._

There was that word again...'muggle'. They called _me _a muggle. But what the hell was a muggle?

I felt someone grip my arm tightly and I spun around. The hall was empty. Next my arm was jerked away from me and I stumbled to follow the force behind the tug. A snakelike hissing erupted in my ears.

_SSSssssssshhhhh..._

My head snapped back as the semi-dark hallway snapped and broke before my eyes, contorting into crazy shapes. I was being sucked into a whirlwind of air, and my nerves screamed in protest. Violently ill to my stomach, I felt my legs go weak with the force of the sucking pull, and the world transformed into black spots.

I crashed into a hard surface and lay with my face pressed against the floor. "Unhhhh..."

A hand pulled my up by both shoulders and I struggled to free myself from the invisible iron grip. It, however, was a futile try. The sudden change in orientation threw me over the edge and I was sick on the ground in front of me.

I was pushed aside forcefully, and I landed on something soft. It appeared to be a plush dark sofa.

I looked away as a flash of light made me cringe (a man shouted, _Scourgify!) _and I buried my face in the soft cushions until the same strong hands pulled me up again. This time, the hands had materialized. They were pale, smooth, and sinewy, and they lead to black-clothed arms and the intense face of a stranger. I stared at his face only inches from mine and struggled to mask my shock and awe.

His face was clean-shaven and porcelain pale, a backdrop which made his blonde hair glow. He had a straight nose, unimpressive jaw, and grey, smoldering eyes. His thin blonde eyebrows were turned up in slight concern.

I cleared my sticky throat.

He let go of my arms and stood up. "Sorry," was all he said in a stiff, posh voice. He turned and stalked away.

I was beginning to get the hang of this traveling business. I didn't understand it, but in my eyes, it had happened twice. I had to get over the fact that I didn't believe half the stuff I had seen since I'd woken up this morning.

"I had to do something. You would have lost it," he said.

I sat up and watched him striding across the room—a large living space, which appeared to be his home, it was furnished with dark metal tables, little ornamentation, and a white marble fireplace. The floor, which I had just violated, was constructed of a very neutral wood—perhaps oak. Two deep black leather armchairs sat on either side of the sofa, all facing the fireplace. He rifled through some papers lying on a table.

I took note of the art he had planted in various places throughout the room. Intricate yet finely designed, they were wrought iron pieces, twisted and spiky shapes suggesting fierce emotions; some of them were interesting, and yet terrifying at the same time.

"Lost what?" I asked, clearing my throat again.

He stuck a finger to his temple. That was all. He didn't even look at me.

"Oh," I whispered. "And what makes _you _so certain?"

He threw me a disdainful look. "I don't think you know what you're talking about. Don't pretend that you do."

I shook my head. "You just put me through hell. Again. That—what do you call that? I've been through it twice now, in as many days."

"Apparation," he responded curtly. "You might have to get used to it, soon."

I recoiled. "I don't understand," I stated. He moved away from the table and towards me.

"You're here because of my intervention," he stated plainly. "I'm confident you understand what that means."

My eyebrows shot upwards. "Of course I fucking understand-"

He put up a hand swiftly to stop me. I shut my mouth. "Don't. Listen to me. We both have little time, and I have even less _patience._"

Walking to the fireplace, he ran a hand through his neat blond hair. Standing in front of the sheer white marble, he looked striking—pale skin on ivory stone, and his black tailored suit against the obsidian interior of the fireplace.

"As I was saying, I intervened. Which means someone else told me to intervene. Get me?" I nodded.

"Your being here isn't a mistake. But _you_ are. Someone told me to fix that error before other parties could get to you. Not everything is a coincidence, _Roberts. _In fact, most everything happens because of planned, meticulous reasons."

His voice was cold, his eyes on me like fire, judging my reaction. I followed along with ease. Deduction and critical analysis were some of my strongest areas of practical thinking.

"You're one small part of a large political war. I'm not going to _help _you, but I'm going to play along," he stated. "I live when I do what people tell me to do," he continued, his eyes cutting away and resting on the fireplace. Bright green flames sprang up from the gray ash, right before my eyes. I jumped back and gripped the arm of the sofa.

"The ring is important—but it also means something to me. McGonagall has it now. If only she knew what the hell it meant to me. I'm damn lucky you can remember what the missive said. It's my clue to understanding it."

He sighed coarsely. I took this as my cue. "I couldn't help but notice," I asked in a small voice, "...a _mistake?_ I'm _sorry?"_

He flicked out a long, dark object—the same as the man in the school. "I have _talent. _My contractor seems to think _you_ do as well."

"You're crazy," I blurted.

"That;s exactly what a muggle would think," he sighed under his breath. "I doubted him. Until you found my convenient _gift,_" he stated matter-of-factly. "I charmed it with _Homonem Repello_. You would never have found it if...the rumours were not true."

I stared at him, jaw slightly agape. Brushing my hands on my jeans, I stood and eyed him levelly. "You're talking about _magic? _The kind of wand-waving, hexing, lucky charms shit they talk about in books? I—I don't know what to say. I've seen a lot of _weird shit _today. Why does the ring matter so much to _you? _I'd like to know who contacted you. No—I'd like to know who burned my house up _with me inside,_" I snapped.

"Edwards did it, obviously. He wanted all the pieces—and not even you suspect him," he glared at me. "Anyways, McGonagall is the problem for you—she won't hesitate to wipe your memory and forget this whole incident. Just another spot on her record. Old bat has grown wicked in her wizened age," his biting words held malice, but his eyes didn't have the same anger in them.

"How do you know her?" I asked.

"I used to be a student at her bloody school, of course! It wasn't hers then—it isn't even hers now, but the bint likes to think it is—it was Dumbledore who sat in the headmaster's chair, the old fool. Just about every other wizard or witch in England has attended Hogwarts, something you should just know."

"England..." I whispered. So far away from home.

"No, Scotland. Hogwarts School is in Scotland—_we _are hiding somewhere in Estonia," he corrected me curtly.

I put a hand on my forehead and sat down again. He asked if I would like a glass of water, but I waved him off.

"So...where do I go from here?"

I saw him shrug. "I'll do the dirty work. Again. Get the ring for myself, because it's rightfully mine. I need you to write down _exactly what you remember _from that missive Edwards gave you. My job is to do this clean and get that ring before anyone finds out I'm on the case, or that I stole it from the Ministry's vault in the first place. Er, stole it _back, _that is_._"

"Do you have paper? A pen?" I asked. He moved to find them.

"Oh, fucking joy."

I raised one eyebrow quizzically. He returned with parchment (read: not actual paper) and a black fountain pen. "Enjoy that while you can. Everybody else uses feathers and ink. I'm not joking," he added. I quietly took the pen and put it to the parchment.

"How do I know you won't cross me?" I wasn't giving him what he wanted until I knew he could be trusted—_not _to get rid of me.

"My contractor is your insurance policy. That's all the guarantee you get from me," he sniped, glaring cunningly at me. Goading me with his silver ashen eyes.

I glared back with a stone cold stare, my face expressionless. He leaned casually against the sheer marble fireplace and nodded at the paper. "_Today_, fucking _please."_

He drew his smooth, ebony wand and seemed to examine it closely, taking his eyes off me as I started writing in succinct, stiff, straight handwriting. I created a neat paragraph, a replica of the note. I studied it further, but kept my opinions to myself about his unpleasant attitude and the mysterious clues in the missive.

"I don't suppose you know who sent it?"

"I know exactly," he replied immediately. "An inside worker. Not even Edwards knows him by name. He intercepted my partner before I could lift the ring off him as planned. You might meet him sometime—Alatar Chun. He's not to be trusted."

I stood and approached him, my eyes drawn to the flickering green flames.

"Here," I handed him the folded note. "What should I do? I have...nothing. I'm not even sure I believe you," I said. "I live in Massachusetts. I have a job. What about that?"

Unfortunately, he was taller than I and equally as overbearing, sneered at me as he was. "_Muggle. _Do you think I care? You can accept your ancestry, or return to your...other life. You have what I never did—a choice. Fucking think about it, but quickly. People want to find you. People like Edwards, McGonagall, the entire Ministry of the Wizarding World," he smirked and stuck the paper inside his black suit. "If you don't learn something from what I've told you, you won't last five seconds. The muggle world isn't safe if the Ministry wants you silent."

"Isn't there a way to stop this?" I inquired. "I don't feel good about them fighting over me. Not the kind of attention I like."

He nodded almost indiscernibly. "So you _need_ me?"

I caught my breath. He was trapping me in a box—I could see it now, the paper walls falling down around me. "I will pay you back...with a favor," I promised, lifting my chin defiantly.

His grey eyes blazed and flickered like the firelight. For a moment they seemed possessed with some kind of dark desire, which as further enhanced by the cock of his eyebrow.

"I will retrieve the ring," I daringly suggested. "That makes it easy for you—no sneaking. You won't risk blowing your cover. Besides, everybody loves to have a little bit of spare time on their hands, right? All you need to do," I continued, my voice falling to a cunning whisper, "is find a way to get me inside."

I liked the fact that I'd shocked him; that fact was plainly etched into his face.

"I didn't expect a commitment from you, Roberts. I'm _impressed,_" he almost seethed at me. He developed an interest in his wand, quickly masking his emotions. I watched him with piqued interest, my arms folded softly across my chest. I didn't realize I'd actually relaxed around him until I caught myself leaning against the cold, white stone, mimicking his easy posture.

He suddenly flicked his tailored arm and revealed a glinting silver Rolex. "I might need some time to think over your..._offer. For now, _we have a date."

"What?" I retorted. "With whom?"

He snorted. "My contractor, of course, who wanted you alive."

I glanced down at my dark jeans, my miffed black shirt, and the white hospital robe, scoffing inwardly at my appearance. "I can't go out in this," I snapped shortly.

"Who said we were going _out_ anywhere? My contractor is a _very _private man."

My eyes glinted smartly. "Sorry, let me amend my statement." I leveled my burning gaze with his. "I can't go _anywhere _in these...clothes."

To my anxious surprise and immediate protest, he whipped his wand out and aimed at me, retorting, "You're right. I can't be seen around poorly dressed women. Reflects just as badly on _my _immaculate reputation..."

Suddenly, my stomach felt very constricted and I sucked in a deep breath to combat the woozy feeling that passed over me. When I opened my eyes, I noticed an immediate change. My clothes—they had changed. Drastically.

In place of my jeans, a black pencil skirt came almost to my knees. A sheer white silk blouse had replaced my black top from earlier. A very simple, neat, and pretty asymmetrical ruffle made me, instead of feeling immediately violated, gasp in awe.

I touched the fabric, not quite believing the rawness of magic he'd just shown and proven to me.

He flicked his wand again and the white robe in my hands transformed into a silken black...thing. It looked like a long gown as I felt in in my fingers.

"Not too Muggle," he commented aloud. I looked up sharply and he smirked in return.

"Bathroom?" I asked. "What do you call it—do you have a _powder_ room here?"

He motioned with his hand towards the hallway. "We haven't much time."

I nodded, still feeling awestruck. Once in the bathroom, I closed and locked the door. Actually, there was no lock on the old-fashioned handle, so I prayed and closed it tightly behind me. I examined the long garment in the better, brighter light. Pulling it over my head, I noticed a fine, deep purple sheer in the garment that I hadn't seen before. I combed through my naturally wavy hair, splashed water on my face, and applied some lotion to my dry hands—still dry from their prolonged exposure to the dreadful cold just hours ago. I shivered at just the memory of the harsh, unyielding wind on my skin and rubbed my shoulders.

Exiting the tiny room, I found my host (read: alleged 'rescuer') standing at his front door. His eyes trailed down my body, eyeing the slim cloak, and he noticed, apparently, that I was wearing no shoes, still.

"You're telling me you walked around the castle in..." he asked jeeringly.

I simply shrugged.

"I did that once," he added, though I doubted he'd truly meant to say it aloud. "You're telling me wizards like yourself typically wear..." I asked, glancing at the spotless, expensive watch glinting under his left arm sleeve.

He glanced down at his wrist and a tight-lipped smile lifted the corners of his mouth. _Touche, _I wanted him to say, but I felt he wasn't really the cliched type.

"I like to treat myself to certain niceties. It comes with the line of work," he spoke sharply, harshly. "You wouldn't understand—not quite yet. Soon, you'll see that I am like no other wizard."

I studied the sharp, interesting structure of his face and I asked a question that seemed so out of place, and yet very belated, and somehow also extremely necessary.

"What is your name?"

He cleared his throat and stood taller. I saw immeasurable conflict rising in his eyes, saw them glass over as two cold, distant words left his lips. "Draco Malfoy."


End file.
